Lessons in Humility, Long Overdue
by Sachehund
Summary: After pulling a long con with Nef, Morinth is looking for something a little simpler. A one-nighter'll do the trick, so far as she's concerned, but- who it ends poorly for is up in the air. F/F; presents a 'revised' version of Samara's loyalty quest that's meant to be a bit more true to Morinth's reputation. Content Warnings Herein, etc.
1. A Risk Worth Taking

**CONTENT WARNING: **Contains graphic sexual content between women. You have been warned.

**NOTES:** Instead of going with a 'I can hypnotize you with my ~mind~' magical-seductress mainstay (though that obviously plays into it), I decided to go with a more basic idea of standard, tried-and-true manipulation. 'Cause, hey, when you've been watching people for nearly four centuries, you don't always need your snazzy tricks to run pick-ups.

Worth mentioning that this is an alternate version of how Samara's loyalty quest goes, presented in a way that delves more into Morinth's 'acting like a seasoned predator' side- actually observing the people she goes after- as opposed to the self-absorbed "not trying too hard" front you see in-game.

**[** 1 **::** A Risk Worth Taking **]**

Morinth watched her from the moment she came in. A human female that had promise, but it had yet to be seen if she was worth the trouble.

Based strictly on appearances, it would've been an easy decision to make, if she was feeling up to a lengthy seduction; the newcomer was hardly a beauty queen, possessing both the scars and the severe look of a weathered combat veteran, but she wasn't without her attractive qualities. Still, both it, and her manner, indicated a pleasant lack of vanity, saying nothing of irritating pretense.

The woman had angular features, a defined jawline, still feminine beneath the trained bravado; tall, thinly muscled, pale, a short-cropped, easily-maintaned hairstyle- all of it capped off with clothing that solidified the impression of being something other than a common club-goer. Not a standard merc, either, if indeed this was a merc at all; male or female, human or batarian, asari or turian, they all had a swagger that denoted street-wise confidence, with only a few displaying the kind of hard-bitten control she saw playing out in front of her.

So, no. Not a merc. Soldier-turned-merc was far more likely. That much was confirmed by some of the more subtle details; the clothing the woman was wearing matched some of the clean-pressed attire Morinth had seen military types wear before, usually after galas they were forced to attend on account of their superiors.

Or, so she'd heard from a former suitor.

Not a social butterfly, then, if she had little interest in playing dress-up with anything except what she had on-hand. The uniform's jacket was absent, of course, leaving the usual dress shirt and slacks, the well-polished shoes, all immaculately maintained- meaning they were almost never used, or they always were. Morinth was betting on the latter.

Appearances still mattered, of course; Soldier Girl maintained a posture that was both confident and meant to intimidate, in spite of being a size that was slighter than the common krogan, or turian clientele. Worldly, besides- seemed to know which cues to pick up on from the varying species, enough to know when to get under their skin, and when to avoid conflict.

It was all perfectly manufactured; all a smartly put-together facade. That alone might have been enough reason to be wary, all told, as Soldier Girl hardly looked like the type to go slumming around Omega bars; that alone usually denoted some kind of ulterior motive. In this case, there was a distinct lack of focus, a sense of being far removed from one's element- based both on posture, and the obvious desire to assert herself in situations where a fight was guaranteed to happen- that made this particular visit seem like a 'special occasion.'

Beyond that, the woman was only too happy to visit the bar. Someone with a cause didn't want their senses dulled; someone with something more personal in mind, did.

Something had to have drawn her here; something powerful enough to make her stay. Looking for a few more fights, maybe, a chance to blow off steam... or was she more interested in companionship? She wasn't shy about looking at the dancers, but Morinth could see that what attention was paid to them was unfocused; not disinterested, necessarily, but still a dismissal. A hint of self-consciousness, maybe...?

No. Not likely. The woman's approach was too assertive for that. She was looking for something she wasn't seeing; something the dancers didn't possess. For as attractive as the asari hired to put on a show were, they didn't offer much in the way of novel experiences.

Morinth smirked, raising her drink to take a sip as she watched. If novelty was the goal, then it seemed they had a similar agenda in that respect.

Ever more curious, Morinth continued to observe from as close as she dared to get, noting every tic, every detail, that seemed like it might yield something useful. And, even at a distance, those details were already rising to the surface. Soldier Girl was taking shots of pure alcohol, by the look of it, avoiding the alien liquors and instead ordering spirits that came from human distilleries; that much was easy to tell by the bottle type. Those weren't easy to come by on Omega; meant she had money.

Former soldier, then, Morinth reasoned. She'd been around those types long enough to know that only elite officers were in the kind of pay grade that allowed them to knock back that kind of booze without blinking, and most of them wouldn't be bothering with a VIP club on Omega, no matter how deviant. Made her wonder what had driven the woman out of the service. Someone with that kind of look and demeanor was the type to stay in for life, not high-tail it for a few easy credits- though, whoever Soldier Girl was working for now was paying her quite well, apparently, and they didn't like leaving tracks. That much was evident by the woman's use of credit chits with set limits- ones that wouldn't be linked to an account. Could always tell which were which by subtle deviations in the color.

Meant asking the bartender for a receipt under false pretenses wouldn't win Morinth a name to run through an extranet search. Smart move, in a place like the one they currently occupied.

It was after what she assumed was the second shot of alcohol that she began to see the more- personal side of her mark, a loosening in tightly-wound shoulders as those shadowed eyes turned to look at some of the club-goers. From a distance, some of the nuances in Soldier Girl's expression weren't entirely legible, but enough of it was. There was a longing there, subtle- clouded by a peculiar kind of apprehension- but identifiable. A brief moment of looking at people who were only too happy to let go, to cast off the chains they wore outside the club's threshold and allow themselves total immersion into the beat, the atmosphere.

Some part of her wanted that, clearly, even if it wasn't about to take the form it did with some of the others. She didn't want to dance, didn't want to converse with the drugged-out celebrants, didn't seem to want anything more than to slake aggression, here and there, and even that didn't seem to be enough. That was the usual method; tonight, she wanted something different.

And there it was, Morinth thought. That was her in.

_She's tired._

Tired enough to be coaxed; to drag into spontaneity- hardly so drunk as to be anything less than a genuine challenge, but drunk enough on the liquor imbibed and the promise of a new experience that she wasn't likely to refuse.

Now, all Morinth needed to know was whether or not the woman's words were as sharp and articulated as her demeanor. If they were, she had her mark. If not- well. Maybe it was still worth the change of pace; she'd had plenty of tender, artistically driven souls, easily shattered, come to her beck and call, though they often required an emotional investment to facilitate that, however fake that happened to be. This mark did, too, clearly- but it was different.

Soldiers liked their emotional connections to happen at a comfortable distance, she'd found; preferred to have something to relate to, rather than something to bolster them. Preferred to have an outlet, not inspiration. They were tougher to crack, but once they did, their intensity was always well worth the effort.

A risk worth taking, then; well worth ditching out on her usual dose of Hallex for the evening. And if it ended up falling short of expectation, there were always other nights, and far easier prey to follow up on.

[...]

From start to finish, the entire thing had felt awkward.

Listening to Samara's descriptions of what was in store for her had been strange enough for Shepard to sit through, the entire set-up continuously providing reasons for uneasiness. The matriarch had taken note, of course, had stated more than once that nervousness would be a point against the ruse they were planning, and, as such, hardly seemed to object when Shepard raised the possibility of hitting the regular Afterlife bar for a drink.

Samara had, however, warned against over-indulgence. "There is a fair chance she will lose interest if she feels you are too off-balance," the matriarch said, using a measured tone to keep from sounding in any way judgmental.

"I won't be," Shepard assured her. "Trust me. But if you want this to look 'natural,' I'm gonna need some outside assistance." Pausing, she shook her head, and said, "Honestly, Samara... am I really the right person for this? Miranda's the one that's got a head for art, music- Well. Maybe not elcor art, but-"

"Miranda is also far more likely to want Morinth captured, and studied, rather than killed," Samara pointed out mildly, using little more than a raised hand to stop Shepard's attempts to weasel out of the idea in its tracks. "More importantly- though I hope you'll forgive me the imposition- you are the only person I feel comfortable sharing this with."

"Well. Just so you know? Hooking up with a jarhead at a space port PX is a lot different than luring in a connoisseur of the night club circuit. Groundpounders are easy- but this?"

Samara had taken the chance to, once again, assure her that everything would be fine, but Shepard doubted that the matriarch was in any way aware of just how rusty- or, non-existent- her 'dating' skills were. Still, she did what she was told, eager to get things moving, and over with, hoping all the while that she didn't completely ruin the singular chance Samara had been given.

Thus, as instructed, Shepard had made her rounds- offering help, breaking up a bad situation just waiting to happen, getting into knock-down drag-outs where applicable- and the longer she went, the more tense she became. She was certain she'd done everything she needed to, everything that would attract the right kind of attention, but so far, it was only some of the employed dancers, ones who had witnessed her standing up for one of their colleagues, that had offered her any obvious appreciation.

Well, save for the man who'd flatly stated that she'd be pretty if she didn't remind him of his older brother.

Returning to the bar, her uncertainty ratcheted up, she hadn't even opened her mouth to order another drink when the bartender surprised her with the one sign of progress she'd seen since this little charade began.

"The lady in that corner booth over there," the man said, nodding in his head in the direction of a small grouping of tables, "wanted this comped. Said to join her when you get a chance."

She accepting the glass without looking at it, instead turning her head just slightly to glance towards the corner booth, looking for whomever had sent it out of the corner of her eye. It could be a Blue Suns merc who'd recognized her, a member of Eclipse maybe... Not Blood Pack, though. The only krogan present had been the one at the bar, the one who'd tried to challenge her to down a glass of ryncol; same one that backed down when she'd stated that, if she was still standing by the time she'd drank it down, he'd have to hand over the fancy, engraved blade at his side for collateral. His only excuse for wimping out was something about it being a family heirloom, that it 'wasn't worth it' to gamble on for the sake of seeing a human make a heroic effort to keep from puking her guts out.

But that was neither here nor there- it was a distraction. Still, better to ask for verification, rather than walk into a trap. Or... the wrong trap, as the case may be.

"You don't happen to know who it was that sent the request, do you?" she asked, turning her attention back to the bartender.

"Some asari that's been in here a lot lately," the bartender said, waving a hand dismissively. "And- just some friendly advice? Don't gotta take if you don't want to, but, if you know what's good for you, you'll be careful. Somethin' about her..." He shook his head. "Don't know. Doesn't sit right with me."

"Thanks for the tip," Shepard said, the word reminding her to drop down a couple stray credit chits as 'thanks' for the man's service, "but I can handle myself. Don't worry."

"Yeah, well. Do me a favor and don't tell her I said anything. She's one of the only people in this dive that tips well. Well. Aside from you, anyway."

She merely nodded, at that, glancing down at the glass in-hand before taking a sip- and paused.

The drink was bourbon, same thing she'd been ordering all night. Without thinking, she'd raised her eyes to look towards the corner booth again, wondering just how long her 'benefactor' had been watching. And, judging by the bartender's 'description' alone- a distinct sense of danger- she was betting that the woman responsible for the free round was the one she was looking for.

That alone was enough to snap the moment into focus; that this was really going to happen. The news was both a relief, and a reason to allow for a brief case of nerves. She could face impossible situations, run up against enemy fire with the same kind of suicidal bravery Samara had said to put on display for their target audience, but entering into what promised to be a vapid conversation about subjects she couldn't care less about?

That was daunting, in a way. More daunting was the knowledge that, this was where she'd either make or break Samara's plans- and more than anything, she wanted to make sure those plans worked out, in the end. Knew how profoundly important they were to the justicar- important enough to agree to put herself in a position that could end up being profoundly humiliating. Granted, she'd always had a fondness for the matriarch, be it out of pure respect, or simple attraction, and the idea of failing the woman in no way sat well with her, but as the reality of the moment solidified, she had to chide herself for just how far she was apparently willing to run with that lofty ideal. As she'd pointed out before, to herself, and to Samara: this was a situation where she _could_ fail, and fail horribly.

Still seemed a bit backwards, though, how something as simple as a quasi-date could put her on edge- but then, she reasoned, that's probably why she never bothered dating in the first place


	2. Great Conversationalists

**[** 2 **::** Great Conversationalists **]**

* * *

Morinth tracked the stray looks shot in her direction once the bartender had delivered her message. Soldier Girl was doing a good job of keeping them subtle, but her caution was obvious, even at a distance- but so, too, was her interest. The asari could almost see the wheels turning, tried to imagine the myriad questions that were pondered in the wake of the offer: who had sent the note?; was it worth pursuing?; would she be disappointed, or be disappointing, if she followed up on it?

There was a brief exchange with the bartender, then. That much was expected; a trained service member would be stupid to go with a simple invitation in a place like this. As such, it came as no surprise when the hesitance continued, even as Soldier Girl looked down at the drink she'd been given. Bemusement, then, that someone had paid enough attention to order bourbon, that someone had cared to notice the detail. And there, another look cast in the direction of the booth her observer sat in, caution overridden by surprise.

And there was that spark of interest. Good.

The indirect approach was one Morinth had considered to be a possible failing route, all told, but to her mind, it wouldn't do to simply ambush a trained soldier. It would have set of all kinds of warning signs, started their interaction out on an unnecessarily hostile tone, if years of combat had trained in instinctual triggers in the woman, as often it did. This way, there might still be some caution present, but it would be less so than sparking a sudden rise of adrenaline.

Beyond that, this method provided an unspoken compliment. Soldier or no, the woman was still the sum of instinct underneath all the cognitive discipline. Male or female, a subtle reminder of being attractive, aesthetically pleasing in spite of being surrounded by superficial vanity, could soften targets surprisingly well, if it was played correctly. Morinth hoped that this did the same; set the stage for what she eventually planned to act on. Really, something about a hard-bitten warrior opening up enough to show common vulnerability, coaxed to the surface regardless of how little of it was present, that sent a small thrill through her. Not too unlike the thrill she got when she saw the woman begin to approach, apparently determined to follow through on the silent offer that had been made.

The approach itself was one of confidence; it was when she saw Morinth in the flesh, without a veil of distance and shadow to cloud all the details, that she registered surprised. She hadn't expected what she saw, undoubtedly; had expected someone ugly, perhaps, or another soldier. Maybe even a rival.

"Thanks for the drink," Soldier Girl offered, once she'd gotten over her surprise. "But I have to admit- in places like this, I'm a little suspicious of charity."

An unspoken question- not exactly polite, but close enough. Blunt, though; that, Morinth could appreciate.

"You just looked like you could use a change of scenery," Morinth said, with that in mind, a calm smile on her face, her posture relaxed, open; kept her elbows as far from her torso as possible, to keep from looking guarded, doing little to protect vitals, giving the signal that this was a place the woman could relax. "And, just so you're not thinking it's still an act of charity- as it turns out, I could use some company."

"The night's been that rough, has it?" Soldier Girl replied, smiling lopsidedly; an attempt at levity.

It was good to hear that, even in uncertainty, those words weren't stilted; a positive sign, if ever there was one, even if the humor was rife with implied self-deprecation. Modest.

"I could ask you the same thing," Morinth said. "You've barely spoken to anyone since you got here. Had plenty of dancers looking your way, too- but you just passed them by."

"I take it that's not normal?"

Morinth chuckled, her smile broadening. "Says a lot about you," she said. "Most people just see the aesthetic. Don't mind a dull conversation provided they get something out of it later."

"Some of them could be great conversationalists," Soldier Girl offered dryly. "You never know until you talk to them."

"On their off-hours, maybe," Morinth replied, returning the easy smile she was offered. "It's a standard rule to keep conversation light and breezy. Apparently, onlookers don't like it when the strippers they're watching are more intelligent than they are. Changes the balance of power."

Soldier Girl paused- and couldn't hold back an amused smile, at that. "That's really a rule here?"

"Of course. Hard to objectify someone while they're telling you about their latest paper on theoretical physics. Well... I suppose a salarian might tell you differently, but most of the clientele wouldn't."

The soldier chuckled, genuine amusement in her expression, some of that surprise sneaking back into the look in her eyes. "I suppose I hadn't looked at it that way before," she conceded. "Though, that sort of theme might be worth looking into."

"It'd be novel, at least," Morinth said, allowing her smile to broaden again; she was already going above and beyond what Soldier Girl expected. "So, what's your name, anyway?" she asked, canting her head to the side. "Mine's Morinth."

The woman glanced down at her drink, offering a smile that bordered on apologetic. "Let's just go with 'Jane' for now."

Arching her eyebrows, Morinth said, "Guess that means I won't be hearing your real name anytime soon."

Soldier Girl shrugged, and said, "Can't blame me for being cautious."

"I suppose not," Morinth replied, in no way interested in hiding her curiosity. "It's a pleasure to meet you, regardless."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, too," Soldier Girl said, offering a smile that bordered on bemused. "Like you said- a decent conversation was the last thing I was expecting to find when I came in here."

[...]

And that much was the god's-honest truth.

Samara had said Morinth would be charming, might even bear a family resemblance- but the asari was sharp, intelligent, and not nearly as superficial as Shepard had assumed she'd be. More to the point, she was a dead ringer for her mother. If the ornamental plates Samara wore on her face had been present, there was some question as to whether or not the two could be told apart, provided Morinth didn't speak. Their voices and manner were disparate enough to tell the difference.

But appearances alone had worried her, to some degree. Her attraction to the matriarch was one she'd taken pains to keep under wraps- and here, she was in a position where that attraction could be put to use. By her, and, arguably, by Morinth. As it was, even without any fancy tricks, the asari- Ardat-Yakshi, she reminded herself- was incredibly easy to talk to. Her manner, her demeanor, wasn't that of a seasoned killer, or of excessive vanity; she was personable, with a solid sense of humor, and wasn't at all ignorant to military matters. But even as Shepard repeated to herself the word _adaptability_, she had to admit: she was enjoying herself.

On the Normandy, there was so much emphasis on the mission, on dire situations that they constantly found themselves in, that casual conversation that was genuinely engaging seemed hard to come by. There was never a chance to relax, and simply talk- save for those few moments of sharing a brandy with Chakwas.

And really, was it really such a bad thing to enjoy this?

True, they were setting Morinth up, and true, the evening was going to end badly... but for the time being, Shepard could only go with what Samara had told her. To be natural. To be up-front. To maintain Morinth's interest and, above all, to win enough favor to be taken home.

So- there was no harm in it. Was there? Morally- ethically- there was. But that much, she could set aside, rationalize, Samara's words echoing through her mind every time she found herself in doubt, found herself questioning:

_Nef is only one of hundreds, Shepard- maybe thousands, with many mothers, fathers, sons and daughters to mourn their passing. Let them stand as proof that what we're doing here tonight is a matter of necessity- remind yourself of them, if ever you find your conviction lacking._

Nef had been won over, too. Nef had been spoken to in all the right ways, given all the right cues. And while Samara had seemed to suggest that perhaps, those cues would be put upon Shepard, instead, the opposite seemed to be happening. There was no talk of art, no talk of music, or drugs, or vids... it was just simple conversation. But then, the more she drank, the more it began to tilt towards personal topics, subtle at first- but by the time Shepard noticed that fact, they were too close to an end-game to pull back.

"I look at you and I see a lot of exhaustion," Morinth was saying gently, canting her head to the side. "Someone who could use a moment to relax, or just a moment to breathe."

"That description could apply to just about anyone in here," Shepard replied, unable to keep her natural caution from overriding her immediate agenda.

"These people know when to breathe," Morinth said. "Know relaxation's the only thing they can ask for. May not be healthy, but it's something."

"Are you saying I don't know how to do either?"

"You're trained not to," Morinth replied. "And considering what you told me about some of the merc groups around here, you've got plenty of airtight reasons to keep your guard up. But it does get exhausting, doesn't it? Using the battlefield as a way to unwind, knowing that when it's gone, you'll be restless again. Looking for ways to let go."

"Take it you've got some suggestions for how to do that," Shepard said dryly; didn't need to let the asari know that she'd just hit upon a sore point- even if she seemed to know anyway.

"I do," Morinth said, smile broadening into an unspoken suggestion. "Well... Assuming you play your cards right. But the way you're going, I doubt you'll have much trouble with that."

Shepard chuckled. "The way you say it, you'd think it's already a done deal."

"Would you like it to be?"

Was that her 'in?' The invitation? Or was she reading the situation wrong? Samara had said, be up front, don't be coy... but, in the end, bluntness was the only thing Shepard could think to approach that with.

"I haven't made up my mind yet," she said gently.

"Maybe you'd like me to make it up for you," Morinth suggested, letting her voice mirror what she'd communicated previously in a look; gentle, sultry... enough to make Shepard wonder if that was the warning sign.

...Or, alternatively, wonder if she didn't in some way find the idea genuinely appealing.

"Maybe I would," she said, offering the truth in spite of her misgivings.

"Just a 'maybe?'" she opted for, training her voice to offer a note of sympathy. "I'm used to soldiers having passion- fire. I'd hate to think someone as vibrant as you is so beaten into the ground that you've lost that... that command has gotten you so tightly wound that you can't let go of a little control sometimes."

"Like you said," Shepard replied, shrugging. "Maybe I'm just tired." She eased back in her seat, but paused before taking a drink, looking over the rim of the glass curiously, some of Morinth's words finally reaching her. Setting the glass down, she said, "Wait a minute... how did you know I was part of command?"

_You are the biggest idiot that ever lived,_ she thought irritably, though she at least gave herself points for fighting off the wince that followed. _Of course she didn't know._ Thankfully, Morinth didn't seem to notice- or didn't seem to mind in the least that the slip had been made.

"You have a way about you," she said, simply enough. "You met eyes with that krogan at the bar like you were used to talking down subordinates; got those turians to leave with a few simple orders. Not many people can do that. The ones that try tend to leave this place in a body bag- but you? You walked away unscathed." A beat. Then, "And just how often do you need to be on your guard, anyway? How often do you have to keep up appearances for the people serving under you? For the people you meet here, and everywhere else?"

_Too often,_ she wanted to say. Much as she was loathe to admit it, the questions hit home in a way she wasn't prepared for- and that much, she was certain was coming through in her expression.

"You don't have to be that way with me," Morinth said, adopting a low, lilting tone. "And you deserve a way out. The question is- would you take it, if I offered?" Easing in closer as Shepard took a drink of her bourbon, the asari draped an arm behind her shoulders and said, "Would you give me the chance to see what you're like when you finally unwind?" in a silken tone that was more sultry than anything she'd ever heard.

And had more of an effect than she'd anticipated.

[...]

That faint shiver along the woman's shoulders was enough of an indicator to Morinth that she'd gotten her proverbial foot in the door- but there was still a hint of apprehension threatening to slam the brakes on this nascent liaison. It was expected; rarely did someone with such heavily-asserted self control come apart at the seams, even in light of the most inviting requests.

"But something's still holding you back, isn't it?" Morinth continued, tempering her voice to try and mitigate what could be seen as a challenge, or insult. "You can tell me if you're not interested, you know. I won't take offense..."

"Oh, trust me," Soldier Girl offered hastily, "it's not you. It's-" She paused; seemed to realize moments after that she'd confirmed Morinth's initial assertion, her eyes turning down to her drink in an attempt to off-set the

"It's-?" Morinth prompted, after a brief silence.

Turning her gaze back up to Morinth's, a smile that could almost be called sheepish tugging at the corners of her mouth, Soldier Girl said, "Let's just say this isn't... typical- for me."

"You weren't getting much out of 'typical' before you came over here," Morinth observed, pressing the advantage she'd been offered once those words had trailed off entirely. "I mean... I understand having a routine. In a life like yours, it's necessary. But it gets tiring, doesn't it? Having to play along with the whole 'lonely at the top' cliche'?"

The repetition was a risk, but she'd seen the look of agreement in the soldier's eyes when it had been posited the first time- the desperation to agree, even as she looked as though she might bite back out of sheer irritation for having any part of her laid bare. This time, it worked out for the better, the woman's eyes raising to meet Morinth's own, visibly unwilling to confirm or deny- but it wasn't the nod to exhaustion that got under Soldier Girl's skin. It was the addendum: _lonely_.

Tired and lonely. A perfect combination.

"I don't think I could be in that position," Morinth continued, as the silence went on. "I don't think I could handle it. Takes a certain kind of person to be able to go through life like that, knowing their every move is being watched... always having to set an example. Makes me wonder how you manage it."

"This is the part where I say 'a nightly glass of scotch and a weekly date with my right hand,' isn't it?" Soldier Girl replied dryly- words that could have easily been read as sarcasm were it not for her immediate move to take a sip of her drink.

A means of obscuring her expression; backpedaling.

"That depends," Morinth replied, calmly drawing her fingers over the woman's wrist. "Is it the truth?"

Another brief silence settled between them- long enough for Soldier Girl to smile lopsidedly, acknowledging that she'd already given an answer, and say, "Maybe."

"Just 'maybe?'"

"Alright, so-" the soldier cleared her throat gently, glancing away as she took another sip of her drink, allowing for a brief pause before she continued: "-maybe it's a little closer to the truth than I'd like it to be."

"So. Twice a week, then?"

Forced to lower her drink to keep from laughing into it, Soldier Girl's eyebrows raised as she turned her gaze back to the asari, a broad, genuinely amused smile on her face. "If that's what you'd like to think," she said, raising her glass to take the aborted sip.

She was taking a lot more of those; attempting to cover over an embarrassing admittance by catching up with enough alcohol to compensate, perhaps? Retroactively giving herself the excuse? Didn't matter... it was enough to go on for now.

"I would, actually," Morinth said, carefully drawing down the note of humor in her tone, altering the pacing of her speech just enough to inject the sultry lilt she'd caught the woman's attention with before. "It's quite a visual. You, alone... letting your hand wander down your body once you're sure no one's looking, seeing your breathing get tense, staggered, even as you stop to wonder if you should let yourself go, or hold out for one more night..." Raising her free hand, she gently traced the backs of her fingers over the sharp angle of the soldier's jaw, indulging in the mix of unacknowledged need and apprehension her words and actions had inspired; adopted a delicate smile, one she was careful to keep well away from impressions of sympathy, or pity. "You're wondering the same thing right now," she continued gently, leaning in just a little, letting her voice drop to sweeten the implied offer, "aren't you? If it's safe to let go just a little bit more... if anyone's around to see what's beneath the facade- what's beneath these scars..."

There, Morinth leaned in, just enough to capture Soldier Girl's lips in a kiss, the contact brief, teasing; a promise of what was to come. She was rewarded with an audible exhale upon her retreat, catching sight of the slightly knit brow, the faintly parted lips, the partially lidded eyes that spoke entirely of desire.

"There'll be no one but me to see it," Morinth said gently, raising her thumb to lightly tease at the woman's lower lip, as if to artificially prolong that kiss. "All you have to do is take a chance- and try something a little different."

"You make it sound a lot easier than it actually is," the soldier offered, upon regaining herself, reigning in that expression just slightly- though the breathless quality in her voice said enough on its own. "And... a lot more interesting than anything I do when I'm on my own."

"That's the point, isn't it?"

Soldier Girl let out a light chuckle, at that. "No, I mean- what you described. Whatever you think I do alone, trust me... the reality might be a little disappointing by comparison."

"I doubt that," Morinth replied, the hand that had come to a halt along the woman's neck doubling back to trace the hints of scarring along an otherwise unblemished face. "Just treat this like every other risk you've taken," the implication, paired with the gesture, nearly causing her quarry to shy, "and remember: no one else is watching. You do that, and you'll have a hard time disappointing me."

[...]

As regrettable as the glass-of-scotch aside had been, knee-jerk though the response was, Shepard was surprised to find that it- worked. Surprised, all the more, by the asari's keen interest once it was stated, and the words that came after. Had- _anyone_ been bold enough to speak to her like that during a first meeting? And done it without reeking of beer, or bravado? There were plenty who'd seemed to _want_ to at one point or another, but had there been anyone she legitimately wanted to hear it from?

She knew the answer to that already. The subject Morinth was unwittingly touching on as she spoke- the reminder that there _was_ someone watching- the name that rose to the surface when her mind rebelled against the notion of following through on the tawdry promises laced throughout the woman's responses: Samara. Samara, who would witness everything that was going to take place tonight; whose very manner, at times, seemed to exude a kind of practiced sexuality she claimed to have left behind in her maiden years. Samara, whose face was so plainly echoed in the face of her daughter-

_Her daughter._

The words were the equivalent of a cold shower whenever she considered where this encounter was supposed to go, an unwanted reminder that rose to the surface every time Morinth hit a weak point. But Samara had said this was a risk, hadn't she? That this could happen? That intimacy was the point? Didn't that, in many ways, give tacit permission- if not a direct order- to follow those cues? To indulge, in order to carry out the plan they'd set into motion? That being too modest, too withdrawn, could spark a lack of interest?

And was it really such a bad thing to want a brief refuge from the loneliness Morinth herself had mentioned, in a moment where their usage of each other was mutual? Was it wrong to take a perverse amount of pleasure from knowing she had the upper hand, that she was pulling a fast one on this woman as blatantly as Morinth was trying to pull a fast one on her? Would it really be a dire sin to accept what sincere interest was offered, when Samara already knew that it would come to this? Had said as much, from the beginning?

For indulging in the one thing she'd denied herself prior to, and after her fateful journey to Alchera, Shepard allowed herself that out, rather than dwell on it: that Samara would forgive her- and Samara would save her, if she got in too deep.

That, for the moment, was enough- enough to say, finally, "I could say the same to you," the sudden dryness in her mouth coming in time with a quickening of her heartbeat.

Part of her- and no small part, at that- wanted this. Even more, once she'd loosened the tight hold she'd kept on the proverbial reigns- and Morinth, those blue eyes alive with intent, with desire, could see it.

"I was hoping you might," Morinth replied, capturing Shepard's chin between her thumb and forefinger. "Only question now is whether or not you'll chicken out if I bring you home with me."

Shepard allowed for a faint smile to cross her lips, eyebrows arched in incredulity. "I don't 'chicken out,'" she said simply. "Not once I've made up my mind. Only thing you have to worry about is whether or not you can keep my interest."

Morinth's eyebrows raised at that, in turn, her smile betraying her amusement. "By the end of tonight," she replied, thumb stroking the commander's chin gently, "I'll know what you look like... sound like... what you feel like when you're right on the edge, begging me to give you what you need."

There was a sinister edge to that promise, one that would've stayed hidden behind a veil of simple lust had Shepard been unaware of what she was in for- but where it should have made her uneasy, it only increased her excitement.

Still, she kept herself in-check, replying, "Assuming you can get me that far," affecting her one clear nod to bravado.

Morinth's smile took a turn for the rapacious at that, brows lifting just slightly at the challenge. "You think I can't?"

"I think I'd like to see you try," Shepard admitted, raising a hand to return the touch briefly, her thumb skirting over the swell of Morinth's lower lip in repetition of what had been offered to her earlier.

The asari's eyes lidded slightly at that, tilting her head to encourage a continuation of that touch for as long as it was offered- and only spoke when Shepard's hand retreated. "So what do you say?" she asked, canting her head to the side. "My place? Or do you need more convincing?"

"I might," Shepard replied, returning the asari's nigh-conspiratorial smile, her intent made clear as she drained her drink, and raised from the booth. "Once we get there."


	3. You Won't Have to Be Alone Anymore

**CONTENT: **this is where that 'graphic sex' thing starts, just fyi.

* * *

**[** 3 **::** You Won't Have to Be Alone Anymore **]**

* * *

That could not have gone better.

Allowing herself an amused smile as she waited for the woman to follow her out of the VIP club, one she shifted to mirror the sordid intent she'd spoke of once she caught Soldier Girl's eye again, Morinth tried to remember a time when gathering information had been so easy. She hadn't known for certain that the woman was in command, or in a position of leadership that demanded constant control over personal behaviour- she'd merely guessed. Had waited to hear that, perhaps, what the soldier did was 'classified,' or that she wasn't in quite as lofty a rank as had been presumed; instead, she got the unvarnished truth, with no need for conjecture.

From there on, Soldier Girl had felt comfortable enough to offer more information than she'd intended, initially. She was, in fact, in a position of full command; was, in fact, lonely, tired, and constricted in her day to day habits, thanks in large part to the position she held. The rest had simply fallen into place, helped along by Morinth allowing her to keep her name a secret, the loose detail she provided giving her the ability to ease into an unfamiliar comfort zone... and once that happened, more details arrived. Personal truths that the soldier was unlikely to have told anyone, for any reason, though some of those had been given without conscious thought. They were simply reactions; ones Morinth had picked up on, and run with.

The only trick now was streamlining the process- keeping the woman tethered to that false sense of security, that sense of freedom that came with breaking free of an otherwise dreary routine, and, most importantly: propagating the illusion of choice.

As such, the shift in the soldier's demeanor- evident in her acquiescence, in the clear thrill she seemed to get as she allowed herself to speak more bluntly- was a welcome one. Little by little, she was allowing herself to be coaxed from nervous energy to anticipation, to hunger, a newfound confidence communicated in her posture, in the stray glances she afforded Morinth- and the hints of a smile that spoke of someone who couldn't believe her good fortune. To Soldier Girl's mind, she had successfully maintained a comfortable distance.

Eventually, she would learn otherwise. When the night had come to its conclusion, all that pride, all that control, would be torn away, flaunted before the remnant shreds of the woman's 'true' self. What remained of the conscious mind would be allowed to see, in brutal detail, a body that was no longer responding to her will, but to Morinth's; allowed to see herself act out in ways that were humiliating, demoralizing- _dehumanizing_, as it were- and allowed to feel the enjoyment she derived from it, all the while knowing that something was horribly, horribly wrong. In that, Soldier Girl would be serving a purpose Nef, whom she'd spared such cruelties, could not have, satisfying desires that had gone unslaked through the long con that had come to an end none too long ago.

And in her crescendo, in those moments the emotional backlash would hit the apex of its intensity, it would all be ripped away. The soldier would be another file in the archives, just like the rest; a stillframe memory of fleeting impressions; an imprint in an internalized holojournal.

The thought of that end-game made Morinth anxious, made her want to move things along quicker than perhaps her prey was comfortable with- but she kept herself in check, instead guiding the soldier to the center of the large living room once they entered her apartment, hands coming to rest on the woman's generous hips.

"You're not still nervous, are you?" Morinth asked, canting her head to one side, noting the tension rising again in Soldier Girls's shoulders.

"'Nervous' isn't really the word for it," she replied, offering a halting smile, her eyes turning downward- both to dodge the direct gaze and, Morinth presumed, get a good look at the body that was lightly pressed against her own.

"Anxious, then?" Morinth said, letting her voice drop, body angled to start urging the woman to backpedal, little by little, guiding her to the wall behind her. "-Eager?" Giving those hips a light shove to push Soldier Girl back against the wall, the asari offered a disarming smile to off-set the move. "I bet you don't get to feel either that often... except those times you know you're being deployed- know at any second you'll be smelling blood, steel, sweat... every muscle primed and ready."

"Sounds like you've got some experience with that," was the somewhat awkward response, one that might be off-putting if not for the distinct shift in the voice's timbre.

Arousal; plain as day.

Morinth fought a grin, at that, maintaining the easy smile as her hands curved inwards, palms smoothing over the material of the woman's dress shirt, taking in the distinct hint of musculature beneath that material, muscles that tightened in the wake of the contact. "I know enough to say that sex, and aggression..." her hands shifted, moving upwards slowly, until her fingers nudged the undersides of Soldier Girl's breasts, "-they're not as different as we like to think. Even if the results aren't the same, the anticipation always is..."

Before there could be any response or protest, Morinth drew her prey into a kiss, the shiver the asari suppressed moving instead through the soldier's body. Emboldened, the hands that teased at the woman's breasts shifted upwards, palms dragging blatantly over the both of them, drawing the tucked-in material of the dress shirt upwards, the more direct touch earning a soft noise from her covered mouth. The move made those finely-tuned muscles go taut, her wrists caught in a tight grip, the temptation to resist nearly followed up on- but just as quickly abandoned, even as the kiss broke.

Still, the reaction was profound enough to make Morinth wonder if, perhaps, she'd let herself move a little too quickly, though her words, "Remember... no one's watching," came out easy in spite of the urgency she felt, meant to sooth. "You can relax."

"I did mention I'm not used to this anymore, didn't I?" the soldier replied a bit haltingly, even as she relaxed the grip she had on Morinth's wrists- allowed her hands to trail down leather-clad arms in a return on that affection.

"But it's what you came here for, isn't it?" Morinth replied, drawing her hands inward to start working open the buttons of the dress shirt. "Under your own control... your own desires... trying to break a pattern where this-" -her fingers snuck beneath the opened shirt, giving newly bared skin a taste of direct contact, just below the underwire of a standard-issue bra, "-isn't an option you can take."

As predicted, the words, the actions, were hitting every soft spot- bringing on audible breaths, bringing back that wonderful mix of need and apprehension, the latter expressed in the occasional glance downwards... as if Soldier Girl didn't quite believe this was happening.

"Let me do this for you," Morinth said gently, drawing her hands back up to tease her fingers along the hardened peaks of the woman's breasts as their gazes locked, her lips close to her prey's own as a soft, halted sound came in response to her manipulations. "Let me break the pattern..."

_And how much will you hate me,_ Morinth thought, tilting her head to tease her lips over the smooth skin of her quarry's throat, feeling the pulse of blood beneath and a resultant rush of tension through her lower abdomen, _when you realize that I got you to offer yourself to me, completely, while you still had a choice?_ The second hint of a sound in the woman's throat gave answer enough on its own, forcing Morinth to hold back a smile. _How much will you hate yourself, knowing that someone as proud as you could let this happen?_

Letting her hands drop down to untuck the dress shirt from the soldier's slacks, she withdrew enough to glance up at the indulgent expression that was there to greet her- that slight knit in the woman's brows, those green eyes closed, jaw tensed.

_We'll see how proud you are when all this is over..._

[...]

The ferocity of her body's response to Morinth's manipulations was, to put it mildly, embarrassing. Even leaving the VIP club, Shepard had been only too aware of the ache in her lower abdomen, a tension that had continued downwards- spread through her muscles, priming them for an act she'd only indulged in on her own. And here, with little more than teasing friction to blame for it, she had her attention shifted to the obvious moisture between her thighs, even as she found herself reminded, one more time, of whose eyes were on them, all thanks to Morinth's attempts to put her at ease.

But no matter how peculiar, or out of place it felt, there was no getting away from the fact that it was all really happening.

"You're still holding back," she heard Morinth murmur against her neck, felt slender fingers splay against her midsection, felt them nudge beneath the raised material of her shirt. "Keeping all that intensity locked inside... does it ever hurt, physically? Restraining yourself like this?"

She was being goaded, she knew- goaded into responding, into acting out somehow, proving herself. In that instance, she complied- both in the interests of maintained modesty, the outsider's stare that might not been present still managing to assert itself in her thoughts, and in loosening the reigns, just a little. Seizing Morinth's wrists, taking the opportunity afforded to her by the divided attention communicated in those touches, she reversed their positions with little difficulty, shoving the asari back against the wall, their bodies flush against each other.

"How's that for restraint?" Shepard offered, even as she had to chide herself for being so quick to find confidence in the familiarity of struggle, rather than intimacy.

She got no verbal response; shouldn't have expected one after the grin she saw spreading over Morinth's face. The move had served to invigorate, spurring action, the asari's hands raising to shove Shepard away with little warning or pretense, a retaliation that was followed immediately by Morinth slamming into her with the force of a bulldozer, the impact sending her skidding against the thinly carpeted floor beneath them.

The woman was on top of her in an instant, taking advantage of the wind getting knocked clean out of her to pin her wrists down to either side of her head. Everything in her screamed to fight back, but she stopped herself short with a stern inward reminder that her normal, knee-jerk reactions wouldn't serve her well here- and was brought even further to heel by the look she saw in Morinth's eyes when she regained herself.

If ever there was a time she could call a stare truly _predatory_, this would have been it.

"You fight back," Morinth panted as she fit one leg between Shepard's own, her fierce smile, teeth bared, as much an animal's snarl as it was an expression of approval. "Good. I like that."

"Thought you said this wasn't a fight," Shepard said, catching her breath slowly- only to find it hitch as Morinth's body rocked forwards, the slow grind of the thigh between her legs making her entire body go rigid.

"It doesn't have to be," Morinth replied, her grin taming somewhat at the commander's response, whatever had been awakened forcibly reigned in. "Shouldn't be, in your case. Might be fun to be make this more sporting, but not this time. I didn't bring you here to see your training in action."

Shepard let out a short chuckle; tried her best to relax her muscles, even as everything in her- that training, as it was so aptly put- ached to respond with more aggression, just as badly as she ached for something more than just subtle friction. "They didn't give us much 'training' like this in basic."

"Maybe your handlers didn't," Morinth said, her body rocking forward again, lending weight to the slow grind against the woman beneath her, "but something did. And with you? I'd rather see you shift all that energy, all that tension, into everything else you're feeling..."

Right then, a very real, very sudden hint of sensation sparked to life between Shepard's legs, direct stimulus that had nothing to do with Morinth's steady grinding. It made her breath catch, the rigidity in her muscles amplifying briefly, eyes closing as if that might help her absorb the disembodied sensations more easily. Unable to keep a choked moan in check, her hips tilting back in both encouragement, and an involuntary attempt to squirm away, the sensation shocked her too much to keep pace with what was happening in the first place- until it dawned on her that the asari was using little more than the species' natural gift of biotics.

"Easy," Morinth said gently, watching Shepard's every expression like a hawk. "Take a breath- and just let yourself enjoy what I can give you... Show me the woman under all that conditioning..."

The sensation intensified, then, solidified, the tingle blossoming into full-on stimulation, as effective as touch, far more potent, and too abrupt to allow Shepard the luxury of restraining her reaction. Her head jerked back, back arching, another involuntary sound of exertion leaving her, even as she attempted to bite it back. It was sad to admit that she'd nearly forgotten what it was like to have someone else do the work for her; have something other than her own hand between her legs, and this... went far beyond anything she'd felt before, left her gasping when it finally relented.

"There she is," Morinth murmured appreciatively. "That's what I want to see..."

Had it not been for those words, Shepard might have been too busy wrapping her mind around the disembodied touch- and the sheer intensity of it- to notice the draft teasing at her bared skin, the tug of the material as her shirt was slowly being unbuttoned, or the fact that one of her wrists had been released. The hazy memory of Samara's presence, of what the matriarch might be seeing, was enough to goad her into action, the realization of what that draft and chafing signified prompting her to reflexively seize Morinth's wrist.

"Do you think maybe you should slow down a little?" she said, aware of the hint of cold exasperation in Morinth's eyes- and of the strange stimulation between her legs disappearing entirely.

"You didn't object before," Morinth said, the tinge of impatience in her tone difficult to ignore. "I didn't think you'd start now."

_I didn't think I'd be flashing your mother, either,_ she thought, scrambling to try and come up with a reason for calling a halt.

Thankfully, a solution had already presented itself: "It's the biotics," she said, a little more abruptly than intended. "I'm not used to them being- _implemented_ like that." Offering a halting smile, one she hoped read as sheepishness for the right reasons, rather than the wrong ones, she said, "You see them rip apart everything from mechs to packs of hungry varren- you get a little nervous about having it used for anything too sensitive."

If there was a medal for staying cogent in spite of being so turned on it hurt... she was convinced she'd be first in line to receive it.

Morinth chuckled, at that, her amusement sincere enough that Shepard hoped it was a sign she'd bought it. "I guess I should have thought of that," she conceded, deftly opening the last couple buttons of the dress shirt with her free hand, and letting the material fall open. "Was hoping to use my hands for other things," she continued, hand asserting itself over Shepard's breast, "but I can understand being wary. So... I'll give it a rest, for now. But after this... you'll just need to trust that I've got everything under control..."

[...]

But she hadn't, for a moment there.

The exhilaration, the thrill of the hunt, seeing the woman beginning to open up and then shut down so quickly... Morinth had felt her own control slipping, just slightly. Felt herself becoming impatient, overeager, even angered, the urgency of her own desires making her forget, for a moment, how much sweeter this would all be if she allowed this to pan out the way she'd planned it. To let all of this be _given_, before it was taken.

That she still had a ways to go to accomplish what she wanted to. The woman could make amends for the slight of resistance later- for now, Morinth needed to regroup, as quickly as possible. It was a simple matter- reciting to herself what she'd learned, what she knew, as she followed along with that one, simple request.

Sexuality, exposure, clearly made Soldier Girl nervous- not on the basis of the act itself, but on the basis of implied submission. That was obvious enough in the attempted reversal, in the added attempt to bring things back to a pace that was less- feverish. It was a mis-step that could have been disastrous, but thankfully, it hadn't been. Her quarry was still beneath her, still receptive- still exuding tension, showing all the signs of someone who became easily restless, who didn't like to surrender... but who was, in light of the powerful wave of desire that simple round of stimulus had brought to the fore, allowing for it, little by little. Would allow for it, if certain concessions were made.

Letting her eyes trail along skin marred by scarring, signs of combat that did little to distract from the distinctly feminine curves of a modest bust line, a tapered waist, and generous hips, Morinth afforded her quarry a smile- and slid her hand down along the bare skin of a defined ribcage. Shifting her body to get into a position that allowed her to open the fly of the clean-pressed slacks and nudge her fingers beneath the material of plain, white undergarments, she watched the woman's face intently. That nervousness had resurfaced, briefly, as if having bare skin touch her so directly meant more than the biotics put to use previously, her teeth worrying just slightly at the inside of her lower lip as her eyes shifted between the progress of Morinth's hand, and the asari's face.

Then, at the moment of direct contact, those eyes closed, mouth opened slightly as if to offer up a sound, but none came. Her head tilted back, the slight knit that had appeared along her brow before becoming more pronounced. The reaction was immediate, as telling as the slick warmth that greeted Morinth's forefinger, the half-hardened state of the small, hypersensitive bundle of nerves she put the bulk of her attention towards letting her know just how aroused the woman had become.

She leaned down, lips brushing against her quarry's ear, the gesture earning her a ragged, half-restrained moan, "How did I know you'd be this wet?" murmured gently, tone lascivious. Then, and only then, did she shift her cadence, allowing the first of the haze she'd assert over the soldier to set in, her words, "And it's all because of me- isn't it?" promising to be the first implanted suggestion in a long line of many.

Just enough to urge her prey along- to ensure compliance- and still give the necessary illusion of self-control.

[...]

As daft as the question was, Shepard couldn't help but ask herself how had it gotten this far, this quickly.

Entertaining herself with the idea that it would, letting it simmer beneath the surface as a possibility, didn't seem to shock it into reality as much as Morinth's hand moving lazily down her body had. Forced to bite back the urge to put a stop to it before it went too far, reminding herself that she had to wait, that timing was essential, that it wasn't until the predator hovering over her dropped the walls and attempted to engage a meld that Samara would intervene, she swallowed her nervousness- her pride- and allowed that hand to slip beneath her clothing.

That first touch was electric, amplified by the deep tones of Morinth's voice in her ear, the reason for her nervousness seeming to become not only distant, but patently ridiculous. Samara had her own agenda; there was no reason to worry about her, or her judgments. No reason to concern herself with anything other than the moment, and take from it what she could.

Which, as it turned out, was plenty.

Morinth had been right, as she had been with everything else: it felt... incredible to just let go of all the pretense, to run with the implied permission, to accept the entirely too pleasurable sensations that arose from that continued contact. The touch wasn't an exploratory one, wasn't experimental; Morinth knew precisely where to go, and what to do, angling immediately for her clitoris to establish steady contact, the pad of the asari's forefinger drawn in slow circular patterns against the small bud of flesh. Immediately there'd been a sharp contraction along her insides, muscles bearing down tightly, a rough gasp drawn in as her shoulders went taut, back arching, hips raising to add more pressure to those careful manipulations.

"How long has it been since you've been this turned on?" Shepard heard Morinth ask, the woman's voice resonating against her ear, inciting a tremble that worked its way through her shoulders. "How long since you let someone do something about it?"

"Too long," she heard herself say through halted breaths, the thought that had been recurrent throughout the night finally given voice.

That alone should have been a stern warning- but as with everything else, she couldn't summon the will to care.

"And how badly have you wanted someone to?" Morinth continued, applying more pressure and speed to the circular movements of her fingers, the shift drawing a strained whimper from the woman beneath her. "Tried to imagine that it wasn't your hand between your legs at night... that it was someone else's, feeling every little response- hearing every sound..." Shepard felt the smile that resulted from that, rather than seeing it, her eyes still shut tight as she struggled to keep up with every response her body gave. "How good did it feel, thinking you did to them what they were doing to you? That they wanted you, badly- wanted to know the way you felt, what you looked like when you finally gave in..."

She didn't answer; couldn't answer. As humiliating as the questions were- as they should have been- as targeted as they were to her every sore point, they were getting to her in an entirely different way, a sense of fulfillment, of relief, flooding through her, the feelings combining seamlessly with the attentions she was afforded. Attentions that were amplified, suddenly, by the return of that altogether alien sensation the biotics that had been used before, Morinth's fingers teasing at her entrance, flirting with the idea of penetration, before finally sliding into her, the disembodied energy replacing the touch of fingertips against her clit.

Her thighs tensed, the staggered half-whimpers that had left her before solidifying into an unrestrained moan, her hips tilting urgently to press herself against Morinth's hand as another powerful contraction tore through her.

"You've got all that now," Morinth said into her ear, gently, coaxing her along with words as much as touch. "Someone who appreciates the need for that cold facade... but would rather see what's underneath them. Appreciates _you_ like no one else ever could- or ever will..."

Breathing deeply, catching the distinct scent of the asari's skin, Shepard found herself sinking deeper into a mindset that she knew, somewhere, that she should have been fighting-

-couldn't remember, suddenly, why she needed to; wasn't sure she cared; only knew how much she appreciated that touch, those words-

"And soon... you'll get to see exactly what you do for me. Every last detail..."

The implication was enough to shock her out of it, enough to send a contradictory jolt through her, her mind seizing on what that meant, beneath the surface- just as surely as it seized on how badly she wanted to see what was being offered. That wasn't how this was supposed to go, was it-?

"You won't have to be alone anymore...


	4. This is What You Are

**CONTENT WARNING: **more of that sex thing- and now we can add violence to the mix.

* * *

**[** 4 **::** This is What You Are **]**

* * *

-_not alone_-

The thought as the only thing Shepard could cling to- that there was someone watching... and for a moment, she felt a spark of panic. The name that should have sprang to mind immediately was whisked away by sudden aphasia, but the _reason_ she was here was still there, however dimly. Though specifics were hard to grasp, she knew that it was important to mask her confusion, her alarm- that she'd been instructed to play along, but keep her wits about her if something like this occurred. The thought was gone just as quickly as it surfaced, however, overtaken by the base simplicity of physical pleasure, her every justified concern neatly pushed aside in favor of indulgence; of wanting something some part of her knew she shouldn't have let herself fall prey to in the first place.

"Look at me," she heard as she felt Morinth raise, though the teasing between her legs continued. "Just for a moment."

Reluctant, but in many ways hoping this would be the moment the ardat-yakshi made her move- _when her eyes turn black, Shepard, when she attempts to meld with you, is when her guard will drop, and I will strike_- to put this to an end, she went against what little common sense she had left- _but no sooner_- and complied. There- mercifully- in the familiarity of the face she observed- those eyes still as blue, as legible as ever, no darkness to be found save in the intent expressed there- the name that had eluded her- _Samara_- was finally lifted out of the haze and brought back in to her thoughts.

It was a name she clung to as she heard Morinth speak, those words, "You won't hold back on me," spoken so calmly, so compellingly for their simplicity, "will you?" hitting her as hard as the slowed pace of the biotics that teased her clit.

Heard herself reply, "Don't think I could- if I tried," even when she thought to simply nod.

"So don't try," Morinth replied, the intensity of the disembodied stimulus ratcheting up to provoke a sharp gasp from the woman beneath her. "Just let it happen... show me how badly you've needed this." Leaning down again, her cheek brushing against Shepard's own, she drew her lips along the curve of an earlobe, and said, "Show me how grateful you are that anyone's bothering with you in the first place. That you just like to pretend you're cold, unfeeling..." There it was: every reason in the world to shy away, to throw the brakes- even as she found that she didn't want to, but, "Now... listen to the sound of my voice-" proved to be the last legible thing she'd hear Morinth say.

At first, it would have been easy to blame it on the synaptic crossfire brought on by the asari's hand picking up lost momentum; on the shock of pleasure that forced her eyes shut, forced a hoarse moan from her lips, the answer to the spiteful request in exactly the way Morinth wanted her to. It should have frightened her, how distantly she felt the sting of humiliation that came from that, but it didn't; should have bothered her that it sounded as if Morinth was speaking to her under water. It was only the tone she registered, the resonance, the seductive, feminine lilt, that acted to magnify her physical responses in much the same way as a lush, provocative fantasy would, during those times she sought relief by her own hand.

An exertion of will; exactly what she'd been warned about.

The thought of fantasy allowed her to cling to the shreds of an idea, no matter how disoriented by both physical pleasure, and the thick fog closing in around her. As much as she'd tried to deny her interest, to leave the matriarch's image out of her own fevered imaginings out of simple respect, Samara had entered her mind regularly. If she could just catch sight of the woman, use her as an anchor, she could possibly, hopefully, win back some modicum of control. Give herself something that would allow her to remember being brought to orgasm by something _other_ than the thoughts Morinth was attempting to impose on her.

And there she was, standing in the ardat-yakshi's blind spot, patiently waiting- assured enough of her daughter's distraction to be present, but not enough to close the distance. Shepard's gaze locked with the justicar's as she heard Morinth's voice drone on, felt those sensations tear through her, and found there was no way to meet that look with anything except a silent request, however much it probably looked- felt- like begging, a desperate need for the woman to not only be present, but acknowledge her. At first, the pleading entreaty was met with mild surprise- and then, the quiet acknowledgement that was so sorely needed, even though there was the apologetic urging to continue, conveyed in little more than a faint, encouraging nod.

It wasn't the swift conclusion she wanted- but it was something to cling to, something to ascribe the fierce contraction that gripped her muscles to, someone to superimpose over the predator that was attempting to drag her under. Closing her eyes, she brought into focus every torrid fantasy, every sordid thought she'd ever had about the matriarch- imagined, as she felt the bud of flesh Morinth's fingers had retreated from inside of her to again tend directly, that Samara wasn't focused on the task at hand, but on her, specifically. That the low moan drawn from her throat, the parting of her legs to take in more of the pleasure offered to her, gave rise not to concern, or pity, but to the undeniable need she herself had felt, even reveled in, none too long ago.

Mercifully- it was working. As distracted as she was by Morinth's continued murmuring in her ear, as reminded as she was of the predator's presence as her hand gripped a leather-clad shoulder to steady herself, the visuals that flooded her thoughts did an impressive job of keeping the immersive effects of that fog at bay. In her mind's eye, it wasn't Morinth's hand, but Samara's that worked tirelessly between her legs; wasn't Morinth that spoke to her, that summoned another ragged, urgent moan from her throat, but Samara, lavishing affection on her, viscerally moved by her every response, eager for a chance to let her reciprocate.

It was only when the images flickered that Shepard fought to open her eyes, struggled to refocus in order to keep from losing ground again, seeking out the justicar's gaze to again center her thoughts on that anchor. And be it self-delusion, a sense of obligation, or an act of sincerity on Samara's part, Shepard was grateful to see something beneath the hints of sympathy- see a return on the desire she wanted to imagine was present. It didn't matter, then, if it was solely for her benefit, for the benefit of the mission, or a truthful expression- it was enough.

Enough to take with her every time her eyes closed, every time her hand clutched at Morinth's shoulder, every time she heard herself moan or whimper-

"You're so close," Morinth murmured into her ear, those words coming through clearly, the tone of them, her reaction to them, making it so difficult to maintain her train of thought that attempting to focus felt physically painful. "I can feel it. You just need to let go... for me..."

Shepard heard another moan break from her lips, felt herself teetering right on the edge of orgasm- and something far darker.

"Tell me you will," Morinth continued, exerting more pressure against her clitoris, movements quicker, more determined. "Tell me it's all for me..."

Her eyes snapped open on that, the stare she fixed on Samara as direct as she could manage, even as she felt herself slipping, "-All for you," said haltingly, voice strained, ragged- but at least she knew, without question, who she said it to.

And there, relief. In the maddeningly brief amount of time she had to maintain that gaze safely, she'd gotten the last thing she needed: permission, from the only person present who could give it to her. In that moment, Shepard's eyes closed abruptly, the sudden climb towards an end-game starting with a fierce contraction, and ending with her head tilting back, back arching hard to press her body against Morinth's own, an audible inhale pulled in sharply as her fingers clutched harder at the ardat-yakshi's shoulder. And though she held that breath as long as she could, absorbing every escalating wave of sensation, she let it out in a hoarse cry once the tension broke entirely, hips grinding against the hand between her legs of their own volition. Between gasping, staggered attempts to breathe, she felt herself lose what traction she'd gained, the intensity of the orgasm blurring her thoughts, the world around her seeming to fade for as long as it took to absorb the impact.

Dimly aware of Morinth's hand retreating from beneath her slacks, she felt the asari's slick fingers tease at her lower lip, the scents of sex, of exertion, plainly apparent through each panted breath, heard Morinth say, "Good girl," barely registering the snide taunt couched in a tone tailored, perversely, to be soothing, those damp fingers sliding downward to take hold of her chin. "You really do take orders well. Honestly, if you keep this up, I may actually start to miss you when you're gone... but- for now, all I need you to do is open your eyes- and listen carefully..."

Her will thoroughly atrophied, she didn't resist the request; was given little room to do anything but simply comply. And there, finally, she saw what Samara had told her to wait for: saw those deep blue eyes turn pitch black-

-just as she felt her world begin to fray, and tear apart at the seams.

[...]

Morinth saw it, the moment her eyes opened to the mind of the woman beneath her.

First, there was a name- Shepard- one she might have recognized, had it not been overshadowed by what sat, predominantly, within the woman's thoughts.

Guilt, uncertainty, fear, desperation, lust, gratitude- a potent mixture Morinth might have reveled in before, had it anything to do with her, personally. But none of it did- in regards to her, there was only expectation, that _this_ would be end result; that she would do exactly as she was doing presently, all for the sake of painting a target on her back for the shadow that loomed over her shoulder. The shadow that stole her prey's attention in those vital moments where it should have been placed elsewhere, that had attempted so many times to rob her of her life, and was aiming to do so again.

_No._

Anger, betrayal- those words seemed too impotent to place on what she was feeling. It all rose up in her suddenly, her teeth gritting, lips pulling back to bare them, her every muscle tensed and ready to go in for the kill... not with a meld, but with her hands, nails, teeth- Would have felt all of it more acutely, been able to act on the impulse, if she'd been present for the moment, outside of the disembodied connection she'd engaged. Worse, precious milliseconds had already been bled away from what little time she had to save herself, allowing an opening for the one thing she'd run from for the better part of three centuries.

She should have disconnected right then and there, ceased the meld, readied herself, but her executioner was too close; that much, she knew from what she saw in the mind she'd entered. Even if she pulled back now, it was already over.

_You did this-_

There was no fear to touch with those words, words that, in their earthly form, should have been howled so loudly that all of Omega felt stricken, shaken. But there was no reaction; no nothing... because she'd dulled it, she'd _made sure_ it was dulled. Nonfunctional.

And for what little of the moment remained, her mind screamed, ceaselessly, at the woman her will had overtaken, clawing and raking its way through thought and emotion to get to the nervous system she sought to short out, to afford her would-be executioner one last insult- but nothing came of it. She had let her anger last for too long, had started her attempts to take one last life too late.

The truth of that came as swiftly as the realization, in the form of a hand clutching hard at her jaw, instinct wrenching her back to the present, just in time to become aware of the back of her head being seized-

"Be still."

-of the tension going through that grip-

"Know that I loved what you were."

-of the sting of moisture in her eyes-

"Know that what you are, must end."

-all followed by a sudden, wet snap rattling between her ears, the world around her turning abruptly to one side in a single, powerful motion.

There was resonance in that sound, a throbbing echo that became a visceral, keening wail, the likes of which she'd never heard; that no one but the dead would ever hear, she realized, aware of, but unable to feel, her body beginning to fall.

The sound faded with the descent; there was no pain to follow, no sudden blackness... instead, there was only the hard collision of her head against the floor. She could see, out of the corner of her eye, the back of her own shoulder in front of her, the angle awkward, unnatural; could feel her cheek against the inflexible polymers of the tile beneath her, the rest of her body- gone, seemingly. Lungs, heart, limbs- everything was gone, disconnected, little more than a useless weight pressing her face against the ground. Her attempts to breathe went unanswered, the rapid beating of her heart, absent.

Little more than a memory.

A hand pressed against her forehead then, a silhouette appearing in front of her at a dizzying angle, "Rest now," spoken so gently, so fondly, that it both incensed, and shattered what as left of her. "And find peace-"

The rest of the words were muffled, but she knew them already; knew what they meant. It was wounding to hear them, to hear that voice, that tone, the one she'd heard at a time when she could nestle down in the warmth and comfort of a small bed to watch a Thessian sunset outside her window. Sometimes that voice would sing to her- other times, it would just speak, gently, or tell stories. Warm, welcoming, appreciative, in a way, as if to make up for the days of distance.

Her ears failed her as the thought crossed her mind, her eyes quick to follow, leaving little more than flickers of memory. Of hatred, of frustration- of a longing to feel in death something she'd been robbed of so often in life: being rocked to sleep in the arms of the woman that both loved, and loathed her, just one last time.

To that longing, there was no answer; there was only the yawning void that stretched around her, that embraced her, as nothing else in life ever had


	5. Is It Over

**[** 5 **::** Is It? (Over) **]**

* * *

Mercifully unaware of the visceral assault that had been carried out, both against her, and her attacker, the trauma little more than a surreal echo at the fringes of cognition, Shepard had remained listless on the floor of the apartment, unable to track how much time had passed. It came and went in heartbeats, flickers of imagery- a silhouette moving in front of her at erratic intervals. One moment, it was above her, moving slowly, methodically- then, it inhabited only the corner of her eye, the displacement like a tremor; skipped frames of an ancient film reel.

Like sleep paralysis, unwelcome, almost ethereal, the dream-state she'd been enveloped by- _as eyes flashed black_- so easy to sink into- _should have fought it, didn't want to_- that she all but welcomed it. It did not return the sentiment; instead of embracing her, it began to retreat, allowing her to become aware, steadily, of her own breathing. She could sense her limbs, sense that she was laying down against a floor, awkwardly, even as peculiar images continued to surface behind her eyelids- or were her eyes open? Her lungs, steadily taking in air at lulled intervals, weren't receptive to her entreaties to take in a renewing breath; her body, unwilling to move out of the uncomfortable position, even as her legs began to ache. The best she could do in her attempts to communicate with the silhouette was to force out an exhale, in the hopes that a sound might come with it.

For a long while, there was no answer; then, abruptly, with little warning, the shadow entered her vision, so close she could feel its warmth, feel a clutching at her shoulders, startling her. Perhaps it sensed the idiot moans she couldn't be sure she was forcing out, a voice- familiar, gentle- raised in an attempt to sooth.

It panicked her, instead; stripped her of common sense, her heartbeat getting faster, more frantic, the memory of the situation- that any wrong move could end in sudden death- flooding her mind. Had she? These flashes, the paralysis, the cold sweat, had inextricable ties to that moment of disconnect, awareness reaching far enough to feel skin wrapped taught around flesh swollen, frozen and blistered from vacuum exposure, airways had choked, eyes blinded-

Then, she'd receded from sensation. Now, she rose to it, felt a slight tugging along the skin of her torso- unharmed, not swollen, no pounding subdermal pulse, lungs responding, heart still beating- light, but noticeable, movement she identified dimly- not the pinch of an unnaturally tight pressure suit- as the shifting of fabric. And sight, last to sluggishly break through the haze of unconsciousness, granted her a view of the silhouette blotting out the dim lights of the desk lamps; let her know that the shadow was real, not a delusion. Only then did her memory kick fully into gear, the events that had preceded Morinth's attempts to seize total control coming swiftly to mind, the remembered tugging of her shirt, what it meant, causing her hands to rise abruptly, take hold of the wrists of the shadow overhead- the way she should have before.

"You are safe now, commander," the voice said, clearer now, urgent. "Be calm."

_Samara._ Shepard took a slow breath to try and steady herself, eyes trying to focus on the figure above her, tried to reason with herself that the hands at her shirt weren't attempting to undress, but _re_dress her. _What's going on?_

"Shepard," Samara said, cutting through the confusion for long enough to refocus the commander. "Do you know where you are? And to whom you are speaking to?"

She nodded slowly. "Yeah..." Furrowing her brow slightly, she didn't see any sign of the woman that had loomed over her none too long ago. "-Is it, um..." Tongue sluggish, mouth unwilling to move as instructed- "-It it-?"

"Over?" Samara said, her query- bereft of inflection- earning a slow nod. "Yes. It is."

The wave of gratitude, of relief that came over her far out-paced any of the other reactions that would undoubtedly crash down on her as every unfortunate connotation, every humiliating mis-step came back to her. For the moment, all that mattered was that it was over- and that she'd retained her own mind, her own desires, up until the very end.

That thought alone prompted a muffled, half-delirious "-Don't know where I'd be... if you hadn't been here."

Samara's hands paused on the top button of Shepard's dress shirt, but that fiercely controlled expression gave little reason as to why.

"-Felt like I was drowning," she continued, needing to hear the sound of her own voice, to know she could talk, use her own words, as much as she needed to express those sentiments to the matriarch. "When her eyes went out-" -_blackened, twin event horizons in a cerulean sea-_ "-felt... suffocating. Like-" She shook her head slightly, taking another slow breath, as if to remind herself that she could. "I don't really want to think about it..."

"It would be best if you refrained, for the moment," Samara said. "Are you well enough to walk?"

Testing her limbs as best she could, she could feel the weakness in them- and loathe though she was to admit it, "Might need some help," had to be stated.

"I assumed as much."

Though the matriarch moved to try and help Shepard up, there was a pause between them, a moment where they exchanged glances that brought on a greater urge to speak.

"Samara- I just want to say-"

Samara raised a finger to press it against Shepard's lips, silencing her. "We _will_ speak of this," she said, "but... please. We must leave."

Even in her present state, Shepard didn't miss the urgency in that; couldn't ignore the stagnant grief that settled in those pale blue eyes. It seemed absurd that she even thought to ask why; more so when she allowed Samara to help her to her feet, in spite of her disorientation, catching sight of the reasons for the matriarch's urgency, for seemingly displaced emotions that were so at war with an expression that still appeared controlled; perfectly composed. It all coalesced around the body laid out on the nearby couches, the reminder of why they'd been here, what had happened, ushering in a pang of guilt; put a halt to any further expressions of gratitude. Instead, there was shame; apology; the remembrance of the raw sexuality that had taken place moments before what amounted to a centuries-long family tragedy.

She had no right to be distraught, and every reason to keep her mouth shut.

"Sorry," she said. "I..." Still finding it difficult to hang on to coherent thoughts for long enough give them voice, she struggled to find the right words, and instead, simply said, "It can wait."

"Your patience is appreciated, commander," Samara offered sincerely, however fatigued her voice sounded; however much it sounded like the words were forced out. "Thank you."

There was no question of whether or not she was well enough to walk on her own; she couldn't. That in mind, Samara simply encircled her waist in a light grip, slinging her arm over armored shoulders to help haul her back to the Normandy. Shepard knew better than to try and pretend as though she was capable of doing it on her own, even as the weight in her limbs began to lift, little by little; her head was pounding, body unnaturally weakened... she needed the support as badly as Samara seemed to need the silence.

But silence was one thing she couldn't abide, entirely. The longer they moved through the stretches of Omega alleyways, the more she felt her mind start to drift around the surreal feelings that plagued her- the uncertainty that what she was seeing, experiencing, wasn't a ploy unto itself. Every once in a while, her breath caught at the thought of it, a reaction neatly played off as little more than the result of fatigue. That was, until they approached the Normandy.

Maybe it was the act of stepping on to the ship she'd viewed in those moments before her first brush with death that did it- maybe it was the simple idea of facing the crew while she was still incredibly unsteady... but something made her stop in her tracks, bringing Samara to a halt alongside her.

"Commander?"

Shepard took in a shaken breath, a hand raising to rub at her eyes, the motion carried through with a brush of her fingers through her hair. It all felt perfectly real- but-

"Samara, I- um..." There was no face-saving way to put it. "I'm just- I think I need a moment to, ah..."

Words weren't coming to her, still- though this time, it was for an entirely different reason. It wasn't her place to ask for reassurance, no matter how bad she needed it.

"Interrupting even a common meld has adverse effects," Samara replied gently, what little soothing she could offer lost to distraction. "That you are feeling unsteady is- natural."

"So it's normal," Shepard said, paraphrasing as if to reassure herself without the need to impose. "It's all- just... part of the process."

"The feeling will pass, yes," Samara said, as those words trailed off. "But it may be wise to seek the advice of Doctor Chakwas, once we're aboard."

"Yeah..." Shepard paused, and took a breath, trying to steady herself. "I think- that'd be for the best. Just-" Another pause; much as she was aware of concepts like propriety, she had little interest in doing anything except drawing the matriarch into a partial embrace, needing, badly, to feel the warmth there- not the intense chill that had hit her the moment she'd locked eyes with the woman who'd preyed upon her. "Thank you. For... saving me." She let out a short, humorless- almost disbelieving laugh at that, if only thanks to the absurdity those words held, ignoring the sting in her eyes. "Not sure if there's any other way to put it."

Hard to sound non-chalant, when you sound so damn shaken up- but she gave herself points for trying, at least.

As before, Samara was an anchor- though a silent one... and one that was resistant to anything except affording her weary commander her presence. Much as it was easy to sense, it was still difficult to let go, the brief bout of queasy disorientation slowly righting itself.

"I appreciate your need for a moment's peace, Shepard," Samara said, without inflection, "but we should have you examined before too long."

"I know. I'm- sorry. Just- thank you."

"No, commander..." Samara paused, waiting for Shepard to draw away, carefully catching her gaze to say, "I should be the one thanking you. For what you've endured-" Whatever was supposed to come after that was cut short; whatever meaning it had, it wasn't something that could be communicated now. All there was to say was, "For everything. I just hope you can forgive my inclination to seek privacy, once we are certain your health has not been compromised. There are many years I have to account for... and not nearly enough time to atone for them."

What could she say to that? 'Don't be a stranger'? 'I know you just had to murder your daughter, but I need you right now'? She couldn't even tell Samara there was no need to suffer alone; one case outpaced the other by a long shot. Of selfish urges, she'd indulged far too many, in front of the matriarch's own eyes; there was no need to indulge another.

In the end- there was only one thing she could say, and that was, simply, "I understand."

Samara merely raised her hand in response, fingers featherlight down Shepard's cheek, thumb brushing the pooling moisture away from the edge of the woman's eyelid, her own eyes too clouded by the centuries mourned to offer much else than a single, unspoken apology- for being unable to give little more than a gesture meant to sooth a frightened animal, or her speechlessness, save what few technicalities she could offer. It didn't matter, either way; for now, it was enough.

No words were offered otherwise- just a soft urging on Samara's part to guide the ailing commander towards the Normandy's airlock. And Omega, true to its ever-enduring word, remained the burial ground for murderers and victims alike, however inextricable the definition of both could be.

Stood as warning that the line between the two was, as always, forever blurred- no matter the code, or conduct


End file.
